


i know i'd go back to you

by sullenflower



Category: Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars RPF, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Descriptions of Characters with Other People, F/M, Fiction Based on Rumors, Hopeful Open Ending, Infidelity, RPF, Rebounds, and an Overactive Imagination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenflower/pseuds/sullenflower
Summary: "What's the point in hiding when everybody knows we've got unfinished business?"or:a glimpse into what it feels like to be held and consumed by someone you wish was somebody else.
Relationships: Adam Driver/Daisy Ridley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 43





	i know i'd go back to you

**Author's Note:**

> ...
> 
> if you're here, it's because you know what this relationship tag entails, so I'm gonna go ahead and assume you know this is fiction and just a figment of imagination strung along together.
> 
> If there can exist thousands upon thousands of chris evans/sebastian stan or jared padalecki/jensen ackles fics, one more fic in this relationship tag for this small community won't hurt anyone.
> 
> Please mind the tags!! 
> 
> <3

**_Spring_ **

**_Hampstead Heath, England_ **

**_A Day in January 2017_ **

A lilac mist descended over the hills at dawn, the morning dew shepherding nearby infant ferns and faintly settling on her scrunched nose and wind-nipped cheeks.

  
  


Sleepy eyes and uncoiled limbs swallowed in an oversized hoodie reeking of bergamot, vetiver, and rendez-vous geraniums, she cuddles deeper within its dark woolen confines, her fingers peeking out from underneath the mammoth sleeves to steady her phone.

From above, a willow warbler continues its early glory song in floating notes and another fieldfare bird rustles budding spring branches looking for a perch of sturdy bark to settle with its nest of chicks. 

Daisy blinks tiredly.

From afar, she’s sure she paints a different picture than reality. To someone walking by, she can imagine it playing out scene by warm-filtered scene:

  
  


A young woman awaiting her homecoming lover from overseas.

A young woman contemplating meditative answers in a ghostly fog.

A young woman at ease disconnecting from twenty-first-century distractions.

  
  


Back down on earth, however, she’s long wandered over the bridges of what if’s and turned hypothetical tragedies upside down on their heads; as though safe second chances exist, as though fantasies and rundown meadows can bloom again after being set ablaze by deceivingly soft and tender hands, promises carrying the same heady fervor and commitment as passionate words. His head in the clouds, amidst new heights that Icarius would marvel over in wonder, his hair the glossy shards of sun rays—she’s got her feet coiled with the sunken roots he left to rot for another garden, the sad gley soil seeping into the space of her lungs for refuge. 

And so when the call finally arrives and her phone rings and pricks the balloon of stillness around her, she answers with shaky hands, a resolution in her eyes. 

_“I’m sorry”_ met with “I know.”

_“I should’ve told you she was pregnant”_ with “I trusted you.”

_“Can you forgive me?”_ with “I don’t know.”

  
  


_“Is this over between us?”_

  
  


She doesn’t know what to say as she tests the taste of every possible response on her tongue—sweet, bitter, sour, salty.

The eye-blink speed of a flying shadow enraptures her for a split of a moment—a second fieldfare thrush diving into the oak tree recipient of her gaze, downy beige and gossamer brown feathers nuzzling into the beak and neck of the first bird. A mate returning to its family. Their baby chicks sing their own tune before the parents coo alongside. She closes her eyes and pauses her breath to focus, but she doesn’t hear the willow warbler any longer.

  
  
  
  


**_Spring_ **

**_London, England_ **

**_A Night in February 2017_ **

  
  


“Did I ever tell you that you’re cute when you scrunch your nose?” He chuckles and swings an arm over her shoulders, tucking her further beneath his hold.

She rolls her eyes in jest and continues their waltz underneath the lamp-lit streets of a purple London night, the air tinged with an ocean’s worth of water droplets suspended in the dusky air like festive winter lights, the scent of petrichor seeping from the skies and onto pavement cracks.

“What?” He playfully bumps her shoulders with his. “You’re beautiful.”

“Sure, sure.”

He shakes his head. “No, really. You deserve to hear it over and over and—” his nose buries itself into the crown of her hair “—I won’t let a day go by without you being reminded of it.”

She looks up at him, the shape of his lopsided grin imprinting itself in her mind, a picture tucked for safekeeping in her pocket; a synonym for comfort. 

Daisy tucks her hands in the pockets of her jeans and takes the first steps up the stairs to her condo. She pauses in front of the wooden door and takes a deep breath. 

It was still somewhat early in the evening, a perfect time for teenage curfews to toe the finish line, an hour where most families would sit in the dining room just as steak and potatoes would be served on plates. When her phone had rung hours ago and the friendly voice had asked her to spend the day with him, she’d taken a look at her lonely space, blankets on the floor and shut curtains, and had just had _enough_ of her bones and joints cementing in place and salt gathering on her lashes like crystals.

She stretches out her arm without looking back.

Not a second later does she feel his hand clasp onto her own, his fingers claiming the space between her digits, intertwined and threaded, his thumb strokes her sweaty skin.

  
  


It’s only been three weeks since the digital back-and-forth hit the gas pedal at the first sight of a green light. Two weeks since she’s spent learning the twinkle in his eyes when he drizzles honey into his mouth, the hitching tone of his voice when she wears his favorite color, and the way he bites down on his bottom lip when he listens to her talk animatedly about any topic—even if it’s Shakespeare for the umpteenth time—as he watches her bounce off the walls.

He remained by her side when she didn’t leave her house for what seemed like months. Tissues by her bedside and long lavender soaks in bathtubs until the water turned into a frozen lake, he never failed to call or pick up the phone, to take her mind on a train trip elsewhere among remote green mountains and sunlit valleys.

When she emerged from her cave, timid and unsure—he offered a steady hand and patient words.

A year of his friendship had finally bloomed into something _more_ that spring when winter’s frost finally began to thaw from her petals and thorns.

  
  


“Would you like to come inside, Tom?” 

  
  
  


Out in the open, she isn’t afraid as much anymore. Neither confirmed nor denied, he trails when she lingers, she holds his hand where he leads her on new rural roads and foreign trips. She doesn’t break down in panic when the world finds out about them. 

  
  
  
  


**_Spring_ **

**_Madrid, Spain_ **

**_A Night in March 2017_ **

  
  


The bed groans beneath their twisted weight.

Alone and secluded, she melts into his arms and he steels himself around her. Tight. Seething. Seconds beat to the pulse of her veins and minutes thrum by the beating of his hot-blooded heart—a pounding against a bony cage that threatens to collapse rib by rib beneath her grazing fingers pulling his seams apart.

Until they know no end or beginning.

Until his skin is her skin, his lips her lips, his touch her own and they’re both sinking steadily into the dark waters of their late-night hotel rooms, drunk on spirits, and panting through their mouths; failed attempts at keeping their voices from slipping beneath doors and seducing the next innocent heart to shatter.

It’s when she can count his breaths underneath her palm that she tenses and hardens her spine in anticipation. 

He doesn’t say much.

But then again, Adam was never much for words.

His penetrating gaze said everything and nothing all at once. How much he _needed_ her, how badly he _wanted_ her, and how quickly he would blink himself back into a stupor of silent withdrawal; his walls building back up brick by brick as he’d run a hand through disheveled, sweaty locks and tug his pants up. The metal ascension of a zipper being pulled up echoing in her ears. 

Her, still bare, open, bleeding, _waiting_ for just something— _anything_ —more:

His back to her, he becomes like the nights they meet under, all-encompassing yet ever so distant. 

“Olga…” he hesitates. The slightest twitches creating ripples along the lunar landscape of his back, betraying his stern tone. 

She knows the things he wants to say. How _she’s an amazing woman_ and that _she deserves better—_

he finally turns around—

and she bites his lower lip between her own.

Braids her fingers in his hair and _tugs_ just so: 

_not yet._

His breath, warm and full of unspoken truths, stutters against her forehead as he pulls away the tiniest fraction. 

But he doesn’t break free from her grasp, his skin stuck to her magnetic field, his eyes searching her own before he descends and feasts on all she has left to give. 

  
  


Two bodies taking up every inch of a king-sized bed, he remains her center of gravity among the expanse of silk and linens. And so she lays back against her cross to bear, feels him taking his last gulp of air as he sinks again into her in dark churning waters, their sins creating their own fool’s heaven. 

A place only they know.

The zipper splits across her thighs and his paleness against her tan permanently etches itself into her memory as his clothes hit the floor with a loud clang.

But they don’t stop.

Waves of amber skip corner to corner across the ceiling from the lone street lamp across her window as cars drive by still paths. 

They take their time before the glow of midnight lust gives way to a sober dawn. 

  
  


And when he closes her door with the most gentle of violent, regretful touches—him thinking she’s still asleep, her wide awake, holding her breath—she never says a word in the daylight. 

Doesn’t mention the unsent _I’m sorry_ text she saw on top of their pile of clothes bathing her in blue light amidst her dark room when she’d gotten up in the middle of the night and spotted his phone.

To another woman not his wife.

To another woman not her, either. Yet so alike.

  
  
  


**_Spring_ **

**_Yorkshire, England_ **

**_A Night in March 2017_ **

  
  


Half vanilla, half raspberry—the buttery softness of the creamy mixture embraces her tongue and fastens like a sweet roof along her palate. 

Daisy closes her eyes surreptitiously and barely manages to gulp down a scandalous moan in the tea room table they occupy, only a glass window between her and the glimmering twilight sky with its jeweled diamonds that match the gems on the tennis bracelet Tom gifted her the other day. 

“See! I told you you’d love the food here.” He wipes a corner of his mouth kissed by lemon frosting. “But I bet we could make our own pastries better.”

She lifts a brow at that. “That cocky, huh?” 

He smirks knowingly and winks at her. “Don’t trust anyone but yourself at this?”

Holding her chin in a pensive posture, she hums and pretends to think. “Mmm, nope. No. All I need in my kitchen is me, myself, and I.”

“Well, when was the last time you baked with someone?” Butterknife in hand, he gently layers a dark chocolate glaze on his scone, takes her sputtering exclamations in the pockmarks of dinner talk all around them and shakes his head, unwilling to let her continue to search for words:

“We can make a cake together. I’ve never actually done the work myself save for just handing over the ingredients any of my sisters asked for. It’d be nice to have this first with you.”

  
Daisy ignores the niggle in her mind, a memory from long ago chasing at the heels of her consciousness to not be forgotten and play at the widescreen at the front of her mind’s visual receptors. Images in negative black-and-white of a time before her name was globally known and baking an orange cake with her colleague in what she thought would be the most fun she’d ever have getting to know a man so far out of her league would be like—she shakes her head and gives what she hopes looks like a passing smile back at Tom.

If he notices the usual dimples bracketing her cheeks aren’t as prominent as they usually are, he doesn’t say a word. Most likely thinks she’s ruminating over this new development of sharing another piece of herself with him, unknowing that all her secret hiding spots and “X” marks on her map have already been found, excavated, and abandoned.

  
  


But when she says: 

“No, actually… I’ve never made a cake with anyone who stayed the morning after to help clean the dishes,” she finds that she means it, that it’s a truth she’s tried hard not to look at too closely for some time, and that it’s another “X” mark crossed over—this time the person holding the paper hopefully regarding it as a treasure map instead of just a momentary destination guide. 

  
  


**_Spring_ **

**_Toledo, Spain_ **

**_A Night in March 2017_ **

Over the glassy rim of her cherry-red sangria, she slants a coquettish smile at the man across her, deep in thought, splotches of rouge kissing his cheeks down his neck and into the tempting unknown past his black shirt. 

She offers a small chuckle and the corner of his mouth lifts in silent agreement, but his sight remains on the laminated menu sitting on the set table before him. 

  
  


“Can I ask what made you want to have dinner with me?” Joana asks.

  
  


It’s a beautiful evening.

Spain in its late springtime efflorescence has sparrows chirping in the early lavender morning until the scarlets and golds of a sinking sunset set the calm, verdant pastures ablaze and with it, inhibitions.

Adam lifts his head at that, half-opens his mouth in that way of his where his brain forms painfully blunt sentences before he can even blink, but his canines bite down on his daring bottom lip a split of a fraction later—punishing them to keep their forbidden honesty deep within the caverns of his palpitating chest.

  
  


“We have… scenes coming up we have to film where I need you to trust me.” He rolls his leather jacket sleeves up as the outdoor Spanish heat dunks them in its deep pool of humid heat. “And I know we haven’t exactly had many conversations, so I figured dinner was safe.”

She quirks an eyebrow. _Safe from what exactly?_ “You know you could’ve just asked to hang out on set or in any of our trailers during break?” She lifts her arms to reach back and tie her tresses from off her nape. 

His eyes follow her movements before letting out a deep breath. “Figuratively, yes. But… that’s not... It’s not how I operate. I’m sorry.”

She smiles at that. The sincere tenderness in his tone, the Midwestern reservation delivered quietly but poignant all the same. “No, no. Don’t apologize.” Joana tucks a renegade strand of hair behind her ear and leans forward as though sharing a beguiling secret. 

“I’d like to get to know you too.” 

She hopes to keep things light, that conversation won’t stall and sputter in silent _yeah’s_ and noncommittal chuckles. So she doesn’t mention the heavy sadness she notices in his eyes despite his smiles and resounding laughter, or the way he massages an invisible thorn piercing his neck at all times, subconsciously almost. He might look into the distance often or keep his gaze averted from her, appearing as though the Earth depends on him finding a rapid-fire solution to its extinction within the next ten seconds.

  
  


Dinner One goes down her throat slippery & savory, innocent smiles walking down midnight roads with a spring in her own step as she makes her way alone to her hotel room.

Dinner Two they ditch the outdoor veranda sprinkled with yellow blossomed kalanchoes and entertain themselves in their own world near the back of their new favorite restaurant in a table meant for only two.

Dinner Three sees them getting giddy on heavy liquor and bubbly teasing— _your Spanish could still use more rolling r’s, I think your brown hair is beautiful so don't feel like you have to go blonde after this, you’re not so bad yourself._

Dinner Four lasts fifteen minutes. Approximately. She’s not so sure, actually. From the moment he grabbed her hand—a moment of long-awaited fate waiting to spark and combust or pure unexpected bravery—he drags her to their now “own” table reserved for them and only them. He doesn’t let go while they wait for their drinks.

  
  


He doesn’t let go when they’re on their lip-numbing seconds and he tells her he’s sad it’s their last day on set.

He doesn’t let her go when she clings tighter onto his soft, larger hands and all but _steals_ him into her room underneath the watch of a silver moon beaming on the quiet ocean town that night. 

His hands move down to her waist, clutch her just _so_ before she lifts herself onto his torso and wraps her legs around his wideness.

He presses her against the closed door and breathes heavily into her neck. 

Panting, she gives in.

Readily accepting this was meant to happen since they’d met. 

When she embraces his push, she pulls in return. When he dips into her mouth, she strokes his cheeks. When they groan in pleasure, she scratches down his back and he stops her world when he shudders and gives a desperate muted call under that hopeful quarter of a moon looking over all of Earth that very moment:

  
  


“ _Daisy,_ ” she reads the name stained on his traitorous lips.

The slightest glimpse into a forbidden truth brewing from within the darkest caverns of his pounding chest. 

  
  
  


**_Spring_ **

**_London, England_ **

**_A Day in April 2017_ **

  
  


Into the second week of the month and the fifth consecutive day of rainfall and whistling winds rapping at doors and icy windows, she shrugs on a warm blanket and paces towards the toasty living room where she can hear the burning logs in the fireplace crackling and spitting tiny embers. 

Hypnotized, she doesn’t take her sight off the charring wood or dancing flames, not even when strong arms wrap around her upper arms and neck, slept-in cologne of sandalwood and aftershave filling her nose. She relaxes even more and settles back into the couch.

“You’re up early,” Tom mutters into the curve of her neck, tickling a sensitive spot behind her ear. “It’s only five in the morning. Couldn’t sleep?”

Daisy shakes her head and burrows herself further underneath her blanket. “No.”

“No, you couldn’t sleep because you were thinking of me all night long? _Or?_ ”

She manages a small laugh. “ _No_. I’m just… I’m really excited about today, that’s all.”

“Of course, Birthday Girl.” Tom shakes his head and ruffles her messy ponytail. “I don’t know even how _I’m_ awake considering I had to stay on guard duty last night to make sure you didn’t sneak off at midnight to eat the cake your parents sent over for tonight.”

Turning to look at him, she notes his half-open eyes and indented lines adorning his scrunched forehead—tell-tale signs of his losing battle with sleep. 

“Why don’t you go back to bed? It’s still really early.” He opens his mouth in that way of his where she knows he’ll refute whatever she says, but she cuts him off. “And I promise I won’t eat the cake. Pinky promise, yeah?” She holds out her hand.

He smirks and leans forward to capture her mouth instead, a soft kiss pressed into her rosy lips and as he parts, he whispers sweet nothings; words as intimate as when he’d taken out his pair of socks now occupying their own space in her dresser, as close as when he’d envelop her back on lazy Sunday mornings, bare chest against her shoulder blades, and they’d brush their teeth from the same toothpaste and water of her sink. 

  
  


When he goes back to their bed, she remains sitting.

Turns her phone on again and flips on the silent button.

She waits as she did all night in guilt-laden intervals—no matter how badly she wished she didn’t—for a certain transatlantic text in New York time.

Five in the morning for her, midnight for him.

  
  


She has her own tree to mind and build and forage for as Summer comes rolling in soon; he has his own nest far from hers and a new family to tend to and sing with. Somewhere along the lines, she hopes he misses her song the way she misses watching him take off for higher flights. 

**Author's Note:**

> <3
> 
> [Inspired by this song and funny conversations with friends about love, timing, chaos, and dreaming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVISGUb1TSA)  
> 


End file.
